


The First Thing

by engine



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-25
Updated: 2011-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 22:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/engine/pseuds/engine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Military, probably, was the first thing Eames thought when he met Dom's point man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Thing

Military, probably, was the first thing Eames thought when he met Dom's point man. The wonderful world of dreamsharing wasn't new to Eames, not by a long shot, but he hadn't ever made the shift into the quietly lurking criminal underground that surrounded the long abandoned government pet project. He'd dabbled in the drugs, sure, flirted with the possibilities it had when it came to _certain avenues of business_ , definitely; but Eames had always been fine with his art theft and con jobs. He had no real desire to pursue what he had so willingly ran away from.

But Dom could make anyone do anything, and Mal was even better at that than Dom. He'd met them through a mutual acquaintance at an event that Eames wouldn't be able to name anymore. Eames wasn't on the guest list and he was actually there to steal a priceless necklace but Mal was actually at the event for real and Dom was her plus one. Somehow they managed to weasel out Eames's true plans and actually helped keep him from getting caught (because really, what was he thinking, this was at least a two man job).

So when Dom had asked him to at least _try_ forging, come on, man, you can forge anything in real life, think of it as _research_ , Eames hadn't been able to say no. Their friendship was tentative at best, but they'd gotten together whenever they were in the same place and Dom had never asked for a favor before. (Mal had, many times, but she was a beautiful woman and Eames didn't have a choice.)

He'd arrived at the warehouse, a nearly empty, gray affair, and Mal had given him two quick kisses and a pat on the hand saying "so glad to see you again, Charles" because only she could get away with using his first name. Dom had clapped him on the shoulder and directed him towards one of the two desks in the whole place where the third man sat hunched over paper, scribbling furiously. Eames was mildly horrified by the amount of effort he was actually putting into the activity of writing. It was like he was praying or something.

"And this is my point man," Dom said as the stopped at the desk, rapping his knuckles against it. "Hey, this is the guy who I told you can probably forge." The point man looked up, and scowled, his gaze lingering on Eames's clothes like they personally offended him. Considering that he was wearing a three piece suit (albeit with the jacket on the back of the chair and his shirt sleeves rolled up--but he still had the tie on for god's sake) they probably had.

"Arthur Smith," he said as he stood up, and held out a hand for Eames to shake. Arthur was young, but looked even younger, and if Eames saw him on the street he would have thought _law student_ not _criminal_.

"Charles Eames," he replied in his standard English drawl, shaking Arthur's hand loosely. Arthur frowned more, probably because he believed in the power shake, whereas Eames simply considered that a guideline. "And that is certainly not your real name, darling." He smiled a bit, leaning forward over the desk. Dom apparently considered his job done, because he walked back over to Mal where they began talking tersely about something, probably the job.

Arthur smirked, and Eames thought it was the prettiest thing he'd seen all day. "Consider yourself lucky. Most people get an entirely fake name. You simply got half."

He slipped his hand from Eames's and sat back down. "And if you're really named Charles Eames, then I'll tell you my last name."

Eames had to give him that; it wasn't his _real_ name, but most people didn't know the designer anyway, and he was a little sentimental over it. It was _basically_ his real name, by this point; his working name, at least.

Arthur just kept smirking, and then went back to scribbling on his paper, hunching over the desk again.

Which, now that Eames could see, was actually rather nice scribbling. Probably private school. Eames debated saying something more, but it was obvious the conversation was finished. Which was fine; he needed to ask Dom some questions about the job anyway, and what he'd be doing.

Throughout the next few weeks of preparation, practice, learning what forging in the dreamscape actually _meant_ (and really, Dom was right, it was essentially like forging a piece of art, only better, because he got to forge _himself_ ) he got to watch Arthur, casually documenting every little thing about him. Military, definitely. Arthur's voice has a practiced cadence to it--or a lack of, really--and no one stood that straight without training. The only time Eames remember him slouching was when he was sleeping, or hunched over his notes, improbably close to the paper as he wrote. He always dressed impeccably, down to his perfectly shined shoes, and Eames wouldn't be surprised if he _had_ been a law student. He certainly knew more about law, and practically everything, so maybe not law student. Maybe just _crazy geek_. He also wore the suits like a second skin, which could only mean _wealth_. He chewed on the tops of his pens when he thought no one was looking, and tapped out classical music with his fingers during their meetings. When Eames teased him, Arthur's replies were always quick and terse and begged for more teasing. Eames particularly enjoyed when Arthur rolled his eyes.

And if Eames enjoyed the idea of stripping off Arthur's suits piece by piece, well, it wasn't like anyone was asking.

"What're you still doing here, Mr. Eames?" Arthur asked one evening, after Dom and Mal had gone back to their swanky hotel. Eames was doodling on a piece of paper at Dom's desk, because he had nowhere else to be, and watching Arthur was infinitely more fascinating than watching the telly back at his own, considerably _less_ swanky hotel. Not that he was about to tell Arthur that.

"Not a thing, why do you ask? Fancy a chat? You could let me paint your nails."

Arthur gave him the most disparaging look at that, and Eames had to keep himself from laughing.

"It's past ten pm. You're never here this late." Arthur was staring at him like he'd grown an extra head, and Eames swiveled the chair, leaning back to look up at him with a casual smirk.

"I'm touched by your worry, truly. It's almost as though you actually care."

Arthur rolled his eyes at that, and Eames counted it as a personal victory.

"You know, I'm not completely oblivious," Arthur said, leaning against the desk and looking at his nails in the most obvious display of fake carelessness Eames had ever seen. "Why are you watching me?"

"Because you are an enigma, darling," Eames said simply, a smile slowly spreading on his face. "And I desperately want to fit you into the little box I had all prepared. But you seem to keep breaking every single mold."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Arthur said. And then suddenly he was in Eames's personal space, his hands on the armrests and leaning forward and Eames just reaised his eyebrows and quirked a bit of a smile. "But some of us actually do work outside the dreamscape, and you're distracting."

Arthur smelled nice, like baby powder and maybe even a bit of good cologne. Eames could see the faintest hint of stubble (he bet Arthur didn't even need to shave every day) and faint scars from when the razor might have slipped. He could see the sheen of pomade in Arthur's hair, and the slight crease in the collar of his starched shirt.

And then just as quickly he was gone, walking about over to his desk. Eames blinked, smiled more, and swiveled his chair around to face Arthur again.

"I'll take that as a compliment," he mimicked, and got a middle finger for his efforts. Eames made sure to stay late every day after that.

Then the job ended, and Dom and Mal went back to Los Angeles, and Arthur went off somewhere muttering something about "obligations" when Eames pestered him long enough, and Eames went back to England, because they could never keep him out for long, and he didn't see Arthur again for a long time.

\-----

Clinical depression, probably, was the first thing Eames thought when Dom—Cobb now, only Cobb—managed to corner him in Mombassa for the Fischer fiasco. It was also the only thing he could think of when he had to deal with being chased through his own city (his own _current_ city, at least) by stupid men with guns, and if there was one thing he hated, it really was stupid men with guns. And people who were clinically depressed and wouldn't admit it. Cobb could really use some drugs.

Eames had worked with Cobb only a few more times before Mal's untimely death, and, sure, it had been painful to watch her slowly slip into madness. And, yes, it was shit that Cobb couldn't see his children because he was on the lam. But, Christ, this man was _unhinged_ , and it was with great trepidation (and the knowledge that Arthur would, indeed, be working on the job as well) that he accepted. Those few jobs he had worked had been sans Arthur, although Cobb and Mal both refused to tell him where Arthur was (Eames guessed school). As much as it was a bit depressing to admit, Eames was rather interested in seeing him again.

The job went about as well as he'd expected. Sure, they'd _done it_ , or at least, it seemed like they had, since poor Rob wasn't batshit or foaming at the mouth, and Cobb could go home to his children courtesy of Saito, the Man With Too Much Money, but the job itself was a complete mess, nothing went as planned, and Eames could do without forging for quite some time. He'd stick with real life, thank you very much.

He was lighting a cigarette out by the taxi line, indulging in one of his particularly nasty habits after that chaos, when he heard a soft cough and throat clearing from behind him.

"Are we not supposed to all walk our separate ways dramatically and call it a job well done?" Eames asked, exhaling smoke before turning to look at Arthur, who plucked the cigarette out of Eames's hands and dropped it to the cement, crushing it beneath the toe of his ridiculously shining loafers. Eames pouted, and mourned for a moment.

"I didn't realize there was a script we were following." Only Arthur could be both patronizing and honest at the same time. "I thought you'd be on the next flight out of this place. You hate LA."

Arthur's right, and Eames wondered how he knew that. "We have just completed a ridiculous job on a ridiculously long flight, darling, I am not eager to hop on another international flight just yet. I can tolerate beautiful Los Angeles for a night at least."

"Then buy me a drink," Arthur said, and Eames would have honestly done a double take if he hadn't been watching Arthur the whole time. Despite the fact that he was outrageously, unprofessionally, ridiculously attracted to Arthur, Eames had though he'd done a rather good job of hiding it. Or a good job of acting like a nine year old with a crush, one of the two.

"Arthur, you dog, are you asking me on a date? I had hoped for roses." Eames itched to pull out another cigarette.

"Going once," Arthur said, pulling his cell phone from his pocket in an obvious display of 'if you don't answer I'm going to call for a ride'. Eames stared at the cell phone and silently willed it to break.

"You have no concept of romance, do you, Arthur? I mean really—"

"Going twice, Mr. Eames," and he was dialing a number and had that stupid phone up to his ear—

"All _right_ ," Eames hissed, grabbing the phone and tapping the little touch screen until it said 'call canceled' because Arthur _would_ actually be making the call, the little dick. "All right. Drinks. How about," he said, slipping the phone into the pocket of Arthur's jacket, "you join me at my suitably ritzy hotel now that we're filthy rich, and we can pop in at one of the many restaurants that are bound to surround it. And we can pretend you thought of this whole grand romantic outing, instead of simply _drinks_."

"Hey—"

"Really, Arthur, _drinks_? I would hope I mean a little more than a shot of—"

And apparently Arthur was done listening to him tease, because suddenly they were most definitely kissing outside of LAX and if they were getting scandalized looks from the other patrons, well, it certainly wasn't Eames's fault (this time). It was only a quick kiss, quick and hard, and no where near enough, not after years of avoiding this whole thing and then avoiding each other. Eames definitely pouted when Arthur pulled away, but the blush on his cheeks was enough to make Eames perk up immediately. It was _adorable_.

"Will you _shut up_ , asshole?" he said, tugging at the tie looped loosely around Eames's neck. "Just get a goddamn taxi."

He was blushing up to his _ears_. Eames was enchanted.

"Fantastic," he managed, still grinning like he'd won an award and if he paid the taxi driver with a hundred dollar bill, well, it's not like it really mattered anyway.

\-----

Absolutely out of his mind, probably, is the first thing Arthur thinks when he wakes up, sun peeking through the smallest crack in the curtains. Because he is. Out of his mind. This was a really bad idea, like, _ridiculously_ bad, and Arthur knows it'll come back to bite him in the ass one day. In fact, that day will probably be really soon, because Cobb is bound to call him after he's caught up with his kids, and then Arthur would have to explain why the fuck he's in _England_ of all places.

Eames shifts closer, still asleep, and Arthur sighs, because as crazy as he might be, he hasn't left yet.

The flat is small, and slowly being decorated with little knick knacks from around the world. They don't spend much time in it, and it's really Eames's, but the last couple months Arthur was there more than he wasn't. He has suits in the (way too small) closet, and a mug by the coffee maker (that he'd bought, because screw drinking tea in the morning), and he'd picked out the area rug that warmed up living room (it was a nice bohemian print, Eames had heartily approved). So, actually, maybe, just a little, it was their house.

But this was still a really bad idea.

"Darling," Eames says, voice still rough from sleep and the fact that his face is currently buried against Arthur's shoulder. "You are thinking much too loudly for this early."

"It's," Arthur starts, glancing at the clock on the bedside table, "past eleven. That excuse doesn't work."

Eames mutters something incoherent, and wraps himself tighter around Arthur. Out of the goodness of his heart, Arthur lets him. After a moment, because this is routine, and Eames is predictable, Eames pushes himself up, staring blearily at Arthur. He blinks a few times, scrubs a hand through his hair, and then smiles.

"Good morning," he says, and leans in to press a kiss to Arthur's mouth. It's chaste and makes Arthur's stomach tighten, and then Eames drops his head back to where it was. "Five more minutes, then we can face the day."

Arthur rolls his eyes, pushes Eames off, and shoves the covers back. To his credit, Eames only whines _a little_ before tugging the blankets back over his naked self. Arthur pulls on whatever clothes he can find (his shirt, Eames's boxers) and goes to make himself coffee whether Eames likes it or not.

It's all very domestic, and weird, and a little bit scary. Because, come on, this is Eames, not some respectable young man from the upper echelons of New York's finest (which he's sure is what his parents would have wanted, had they remained in contact, and had they still been alive), and Eames is a wanted criminal in more countries than Arthur can count, and a liar, and a gambler, and—

"Still thinking too loudly," Eames said as he drops his forehead against Arthur's shoulder, arms wrapping around his waist. "What did I tell you about doing that before coffee?"

"Not to," Arthur says with a huff, trying to make the coffee drip faster through sheer force of will. It isn't working.

Eames doesn't say anything, and neither does Arthur, and the only sound is the gurgling of the machine.

And then Arthur's cell phone rings.

It's the tinny sound of the death march, which can only mean one person. Like every night, his cell phone is charging in the living room, and after extracting a promise from Eames that he would watch the coffee, Arthur goes to answer it.

"Cobb?" is the first thing he says when he hits receive, his voice somewhere between tentative and excited, and Arthur really hopes that doesn't come through over the phone.

"Hey, uh, Arthur, I know it's kind of early over there—"

"Wait how did you—"

"And I'm sure Eames doesn't like it when you're on the phone for too long—"

"— _Cobb_ —"

"But I was just wondering—"

"—Dom I swear to God if you don't _shut up_ ," Arthur says, and Cobb does, for some strange reason that Arthur can't possibly fathom. "How did you know I was with Eames?" he asks, because if Cobb knows, then—

"Ariadne," Cobb says, and Arthur groans, because he should have known. Of course Ariadne. Why did he still talk to her?

"I'm surprised you kept in touch," Arthur says honestly, because let's face it, Cobb isn't the best when it comes to interpersonal relations.

"As if she would give up," Cobb says, a little bitter. Arthur doesn't blame him. Ariadne is tenacious. "So," Cobb continues before Arthur can say anything. "You're probably wondering why I called, finally, since it's been a few months."

Eames wanders into the room, and Arthur realizes he hasn't even put on pants. He accepts the cup of coffee, but makes a face, and Eames just smiles, much too proud.

"I figured you needed time with your kids. Why?"

"Well," Cobb says, clearing is throat. "I might have this job..."


End file.
